


Appendicitis

by tommyparkerr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Drugged up Peter Parker, Fluff, Gen, Irondad, Minor mentions of PTSD (events of Homecoming), Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter calling Tony dad, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Sleepy Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark being a total dad, We love Irondad, Worried Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyparkerr/pseuds/tommyparkerr
Summary: In which Peter doesn't realize until too late that the flu shouldn't be this painful, and Tony Stark is right there to both lecture and comfort him (and accidentally call him his kid in the process).





	1. Part One: "The Hurt"

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is actually my first published work on this site! It's my first Irondad fic as well, so that's fun. I have a Tumblr too (@tommyparkerr) where you can see more of my reader insert works if you'd like! Anyways, I wrote this awhile ago but didn't post it because it was so long, but I hope you enjoy the whump that's about to ensue :)

Summer was Peter’s favorite season of the year. One, because school was out. Two, because he had all the time in the world to hang out with his best friends. Three, because he was able to patrol longer, more often, and on a more consistent schedule. And four, because all the other seasons sometimes brought on a cold that Peter’s new DNA couldn’t fight and left him in a constant state of near hibernation and he _hated_ it. 

But this summer was bound to be even better because now he had a fifth reason to add on to the ever growing list: he could put in a lot more time at Stark Tower. Especially since summer break didn’t apply to working individuals—aka, Aunt May—Peter didn’t feel guilty spending his days with Tony in the lab working on anything and everything he could possibly get his hands on. He always went home for the evening, which was sometimes disappointing because he knew Tony had a _whole entire room_ for him that he hadn’t yet used but wanted so badly to. However, seeing May’s face light up when he walked through the apartment door made the disappointment disappear real quick. 

It was nice. It was predictable. It was balanced. 

That was until May’s co worker’s husband passed away and, May being May, insisted she be the one to pick up her shifts. With her time now filled up even more, coming home for those few hours each evening served no point. Peter was ecstatic (but tried not to show it _too_ much) when he realized he’d be able to spend some extra time with his mentor and the Tower’s other occupants. And he was even _more_ ecstatic when his aunt decided she wasn’t comfortable with Peter being home alone every night and it was arranged that he would stay at the Tower instead. 

Peter thought about mentioning how he was sixteen and didn’t need a babysitter anymore; he also debated about reminding May that on the off chance some burglar _did_ come into the apartment while he was sleeping, he could fight them off with both hands tied behind his back and both eyes shut. 

He didn’t.

* * *

“Kid.”

They’d been in the lab for hours, Tony working on Mark-whatever-number (he’d lost count at this point) and Peter working on updating Karen’s subsystems. That was if re-coding his intelligent, intangible friend to deeply understand past and present meme culture was considered ‘updating’. 

“Kid, are you even listening to me?” Peter blinked a couple times before turning his eyes from the computer screen to his mentor’s amused gaze. “I’ll take that as a no, then?”

An embarrassed smile took over Peter’s face as he realized he’d been so engrossed in his ‘work’ that he hadn’t, in fact, heard any of what the man had just said.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Peter asked, stretching the top half of his body and hearing several answering _pops_ that indicated his ample time curled over the keyboard. 

Tony chuckled at that and turned the chair Peter was in so his back was toward the screen. 

“You need a break, kid. In fact, I think we’re going to call it a night. It’s your first sleepover ever here and that’s practically _begging_ for a good old-fashioned pizza, ice cream, and pajama party.” Before Peter could say anything, Tony pulled him up and out of his chair. “Also, I really don’t want Pepper to yell at me for being irresponsible the first night in, but potatoes, po-tah-toes. Anyways, let’s go and we can order pizza on the way.”

Normally Peter would have complained about not getting to finish a project before leaving the lab, but knowing he had a whole entire _week_ to work on it made it much easier to do so. Plus, pizza and a movie sounded like a pretty good replacement activity. 

“Yeah, okay,” Peter answered with a grin. “But only if I get to pick the movie.”

“Who said anything about a movie?” Tony pointed out as he herded Peter to the elevator. A single look from the boy had him sighing and admitting defeat. “Star Wars it is, then.”

And so Peter and Tony had pepperoni pizza and cookie dough ice cream and whatever else they desired as they stayed up until the wee hours of the morning watching _Star Wars_. And later, when Peter fell asleep against his mentor’s shoulder after swearing he was still wide awake, Tony carried him to bed, ignoring the way his back protested the extra weight. He watched the boy for a moment, taking a quick mental picture of the innocence and youth he exhibited in his sleep, then tucked it into the ‘Peter’ folder in his mind and hesitantly began to walk away. 

“Let me know if he gets a nightmare or something, yeah, FRI?” he whispered as he prepared to leave Peter’s bedroom. 

“Of course, sir.”

A pause. A nod. 

The door slipped close. 

* * *

When Peter woke the next morning, tired and bleary-eyed with sleep, he was momentarily confused as to where he was. Despite remembering he was at Stark Tower a minute later, his stomach still had twisted with fear—or was that the extra pizza and sweets he’d eaten the night before?—just enough to make him physically uncomfortable. 

After getting up and starting to get ready for the day, he decided it was definitely the pizza talking. His stomach hurt. Not in a _‘I’m gonna throw up’_ type of way, but in a _‘If I eat anymore I’m going to actually explode’_ type of way. Both sucked, though he could barely remember what the former felt like; it’d been _years_ since he’d gotten sick. 

“Peter, Boss is requesting your presence in the kitchen,” FRIDAY said from above, making Peter jump. 

“Oh—okay, yeah! Tell him I’ll be there in a sec!”

After throwing some big and comfy clothes on, Peter wondered if his mentor felt as bloated and gross as he did. 

Only one way to find out. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” Peter cheerfully greeted as he traipsed into the kitchen, soon afterward turning his nose up at the pungent smell that filled the room. “Is that…bacon?”

“Good morning to you, too, sleepy head,” the man chuckled from behind the counter, taking a second to peer over at the teenager. “Do you want some, or am I eating solo?”

“You’re _hungry_?” Peter asked disbelievingly. 

“Are you not?” 

Peter warily shook his head. “I’m still full from last night.”

“Kid, you do realize ‘last night’ was twelve hours ago, right? It’s almost two o’clock now. According to my calculations, you should’ve been starving over four hours ago with your metabolism,” Tony stated, raising a single eyebrow. 

“I…I didn’t know,” Peter stuttered confusedly, looking at the floor and suddenly feeling a lot more self-conscious than before.

A sigh. Footsteps, then a hand on his shoulder. “Pete, look at me.” It took a few moments for him to do so, but he eventually obeyed. Tony looked apologetic. “I didn’t mean to make you doubt what you’re feeling,” he said, knowing full well it was something Peter had always struggled with. “If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re not, don’t. It’s that simple. I’m not going to force feed you if you’re not hungry.”

Peter exhaled and nodded, only giving a quiet, “Okay,” in response. Apparently that was good enough for his mentor, as he stepped away a moment later and enthusiastically clapped his hands. 

“Solo it is!”

They didn’t end up going back to the lab that day, instead choosing to spend their time binge watching each of the Avengers’ ‘Most Recently Viewed’ on Netflix. Some of them were more entertaining than others, and neither of them were surprised when Bruce’s consisted of science-y topics. Luckily, the little humor that was poorly written into the show was understood by both boys, which made it a little more bearable (emphasis on “little”).

The bloating went away after awhile. Not completely, but kind of. A dull ache replaced it, reminding Peter to never again eat as much junk food in one sitting as he did last night. It wasn’t worth it if it was going to make him feel like this. 

Pretty soon the dinner topic rolled around and Peter could tell his mentor wouldn’t be accepting his ‘I’m not hungry’ response as an answer to what they should have; he had already slept through one meal of the day and refused the other, so skipping a third would probably be frowned upon. So, Peter shrugged and later forced himself to eat at least half of the Thai his mentor ordered for him with the knowledge that it was his favorite. Tony and Pepper both gave him weird looks from across the table but didn’t question his lack of appetite. 

Tony forced him to go to bed by ten o’clock, even though Peter argued he wasn’t a kid anymore and that he didn’t need a ‘bedtime’. He only felt slightly better when Tony told him he was going to bed, too; whether or not he was telling the truth, Peter wasn’t sure. He didn’t think too hard on it. The truth was that Peter _was_ tired—way more tired than he should be after sleeping for twelve hours and doing nothing all day. Then again, late nights had always hit him hard. 

Peter crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

* * *

He woke up sometime later; he knew it wasn’t time to get up yet from how black it was outside, which he was thankful for since his eyes still felt extremely heavy. When Peter’s senses finally caught up with him, he pieced together why he’d woken up in the first place:

Rather than a dull ache, his stomach now felt _really_ achy, which was odd. He never got sick—even before the spider bite (unless you count asthma attacks as being sick). 

“Hey, FRIDAY?” Peter whispered into the dark. 

“Yes, Peter?”

“How do you get rid of aches?”

She was silent for a second. “Studies recommend that getting the appropriate amount of sleep, eating a healthy diet, and staying hydrated are great natural preventers and combatants for headaches and migraines. However, if natural solutions do not ease the discomfort, there is ample stock of anodynes such as Aspirin, Tylenol, and Excedrin in Boss’s medicinal supply available for use.” A pause. “Is that what you meant, Peter?”

He opened his mouth to tell the AI that, no, that’s not what he’d been looking for, but stopped himself. The three things she’d listed as natural solutions Peter had _not_ been doing, which made him wonder if the same rules for headaches and migraines applied to stomach aches. 

Peter was suddenly glad he brought water to bed. After taking a few big gulps, the achiness seemed to fade until Peter just felt bloated again; he decided that the same rules did, in fact, apply, and soon fell back asleep (after thanking FRIDAY, of course), swearing to eat healthier the next day and go to bed at the same time as Mr. Stark had forced him to the night before. 

* * *

When Peter woke up a second time, it was to the light flooding in through the windows. He was sure it was early, if only because he heard no other movement throughout the Tower except for Steve getting ready for his morning run. And, considering Steve was still in the Tower, the time had to be before five o’clock. 

Peter closed his eyes again, trying to give himself just a few more hours of rest. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be his body’s plan. Eventually he sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He slipped into a pair of shorts and a tank top, yawning as he put on his tennis shoes and stumbled out the door. He hadn’t exercised in awhile, so maybe running with Captain America would be a good start to the day and get rid of the bloating that was still hanging on. 

“FRI, can you take me to wherever Mr. Captain America is?” Peter asked when he got into the elevator. 

“Sure thing, Peter. Should I alert Boss to your whereabouts?”

“No,” he answered a little too quickly. “I should be back before he wakes up.”

The soft _ding_ of the elevator as it came to a stop a few floors below had Peter suddenly questioning whether or not he should really be joining _the_ Captain America for his morning run. He knew from Sam that they were borderline sacred to him, but before Peter could tell FRIDAY to take him back up to the penthouse the metal doors parted to reveal the surprised face of Steve Rogers. 

“Whatcha doing, kid?” he asked as he stepped in, pressing the button for the ground floor. Peter saw the way Steve knowingly eyed the bags under his eyes and his bed head, but the man didn’t say anything about it. 

“Um…” Peter suddenly was at a loss for words. It took a couple of tries to get something out as he knew there was no going back at this point—not without making a fool out of himself trying to make up an excuse, anyway. “I was wondering if I could maybe, kinda run with you? I completely understand if you’d rather run alone, though. I get that this is kind of your thing and I’m being intrusive because I didn’t really ask before now and I don’t want you to say yes just because you feel bad or anything-“

“Kid, you’re more than welcome to join me,” Steve said with a chuckle. “I’d be happy to have the company.”

Peter paused for a second, looking up at the man through the curls that had fallen over his eyes. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Not at all,” he reassured Peter. “Besides, it gets lonely sometimes and from what I know about you, you’ll be able to fill in the silence.” The doors opened then and Steve ran out, waving for Peter to follow. “C’mon, Queens! Keep up!”

A small smile formed on the boy’s face as he sprinted up to the super soldier, easily picking up conversation. “So, other than running at five o’clock every morning like a madman and occasionally fighting bad guys, what do you like to do for fun?”

Mile number one was fine. Even mile number two was okay. But the farther they got the more Peter began to realize that maybe running on an achy stomach and not enough sleep may have been a bad idea. But he kept going, determined not to let Cap down. So mile number three came, then four, then five, and it should’ve been just as easy for Peter as it was for Steve to run this distance (even twice it) because of his enhancements, and usually it would be, but now it was everything he could do not to keel over. 

“Queens? You alright?” Steve finally asked halfway through mile six. It’d been awhile since Peter had let the conversation fade, and he was definitely more pale than when they had started. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Peter said weakly, stopping alongside the superhero. “Just didn’t get much sleep is all.”

Steve shook his head, frowning. “You should go back inside. You don’t look very good.”

“I’m fine!” Peter argued, not wanting to leave the man’s company but not really wanting to keep running either. 

“No, you’re not,” Steve said just as (if not more)adamantly. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is, okay?” Peter said frustratedly, hating the way his stomach stabbed in pain in response. It was really starting to hurt now. “I’m just… really tired.”

Steve gave him one last look before sighing and cutting across the field they were running around to head back to the Tower. “We’re done for the day, kid. In all honesty, I could use some rest, too. Lack of sleep can do terrible things to you.”

Peter didn’t argue, even though he knew Steve wouldn’t be going back to sleep and was simply saying it to get him back inside the Tower.

It was silent all the way up apart from Peter’s quiet, “Thanks for letting me run with you,” and Steve’s, “Anytime, Queens,” in response. 

Peter groaned as soon as the doors shut behind him and he was left alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to throw up. He had a feeling running was exactly the opposite of what he should have done this morning. But it was only 5:30am, so that meant he still had plenty of time to hunker down and do exactly what he should’ve done earlier. 

“Peter, your body temperature is approximately 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit. If it reaches one hundred, I will be forced to alert Boss,” a sudden voice spoke from the ceiling.

“FRIDAY, it’s no biggie,” Peter said desperately. “I don’t get sick. My temperature is just higher because of the run!”

“Whatever you say, Peter.”

And with that, Peter knew that even with his genuine excuse FRIDAY would still tell Tony if his temperature went up two-tenths of a degree. Traitor. 

After a cool shower and change of clothes, Peter traipsed out to the couch and tugged a blanket over himself, laying his head on a pillow he’d brought from his own bed. He asked FRIDAY to turn on the most recent episode of _American Ninja Warrior_ and let his eyes fall shut. He wasn’t going to sleep; that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to focus on how much his stomach hurt and hopefully have his healing factor take care of it, somehow. It seemed stupid, but maybe if it only knew how much it was hurting him…

He drifted away. 

* * *

“Pete?”

Peter groaned, shifting and slowly blinking his eyes open. “Mr. S’ark?” 

“That’s my name, kid. Although, I thought we’d been over this and decided ‘Tony’ would do just fine.”

The first thing Peter noticed was that the light streaming through the windows was significantly brighter than when he first laid down on the couch. The second was his mentor kneeling on the ground beside him, pushing back a curl from Peter’s forehead. And lastly, he noticed that he felt _better_. His stomach was back to a very dull ache and he no longer felt nauseous or fatigued as he had before. 

“What’s up?” Peter asked, his voice a bit scratchy. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked several times to help them adjust to the light. 

“You tell me,” Tony replied, raising an eyebrow. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” the genius began with an exasperated tinge to his voice, “I woke up this morning at seven o’clock sharp to FRIDAY’s lovely announcement that my kid had a 100.4 degree fever. Me, being the lovely person I am, got up to go check on that kid. Imagine my surprise when I find he’s not in his room and is instead camped out on the living room couch. Now, I’m not saying that it’s not a nice couch, but somehow I don’t think it’s as comfortable as your bed. Sooo…” Tony dragged out, “yes. _You_ tell _me_ what’s up. You alright?” 

Peter ignored the jump of his heart at Tony’s words, _‘my kid’_ rolling through his mind over and over again as he swallowed hard, opened his mouth, and said as normally as possible, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

Tony squinted suspiciously at him. “You sure? Last chance, squirt.”

Peter nodded, still caught up on the fact that the person he’d been looking up to for _years_ now saw him as a son. Ashis _kid_. “Yeah, I’m-I’m sure.”

“In that case,” Tony said, standing up and removing his hand from Peter’s hear, “wanna help me make breakfast?”

Peter nodded once again and swung himself up on his feet; when his head began to spin, he deducted he’d probably swung himself up a little _too_ quickly. A hand reached out and grabbed hold of his shoulder, keeping him steady.

“Easy, Underoos,” Tony said in a soothing voice as Peter regained his footing. “Change of plans—before we make breakfast, we’re getting some liquids down you. FRIDAY told me you were dehydrated from running with Steve this morning.” Then he scoffed, taking Peter by slight surprise. “ _Running_. With a _fever_. Yeah, we’re gonna talk about that one. What great idea possessed you to go running at five o’clock in the morning while you were _sick_? I have to say I honestly do not understand.”

“I dunno,” Peter shrugged, stepping around his mentor to get a cup of water. The last thing he needed right now was to have his favorite Avenger (only after Thor, but he’d take that little tid-bit of information with him to his grave) baby him, so downplaying it would have to do. “I just thought it’d make me feel better, I guess.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Peter turned his head to sharply glare at the man, then took an exaggerated swig of water. “I told you I’m _fine_.

Tony held his hands up in surrender, hiding a smirk (but not very well) as he opened the fridge to gather breakfast supplies. “I believe you,” he said not so believingly. Peter only rolled his eyes. “How do pancakes sound? Or are you a waffle person?”

Peter didn’t have the heart to tell his mentor who had woken up so early just to check on him that he really wasn’t hungry. Plus, if he told him, he’d immediately know something was up. Peter wanted his week at the Tower to be fun and stress-free for everyone involved, and if he was sick, that ruined it. He was already getting better anyway, so there was no need to worry anyone. 

“Pancakes sound all right, Mr. Stark,” Peter smiled. 

They ended up making enough for the entire team (plus Pepper, of course), all of them gathering around the table at exactly eight o’clock to eat a mountainous supply of pancakes and bacon, and though Steve gave Peter an odd look or two, somehow amongst the conversation Tony never noticed that Peter didn’t eat a single one. 

* * *

The nausea came back later full force and all at once while he and Tony were in the lab. Peter wasn’t expecting it, though he probably should’ve figured a few drinks of water wasn’t going to appease his metabolism. His stomach hurt again, but this time Peter chalked it down to hunger pains. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, trying to make his voice sound strong and confident and like nothing was wrong. 

“Yeah, Underoos? Got a question?”

_Yeah, which bathroom is the best to empty my guts out in?_

“No, I just-“ Peter quickly thought of an excuse. “I-I have to go to the bathroom really bad.”

Tony paused in his work for a second, and right when Peter was afraid he was going to turn around just in time to watch him throw up all over his floor, he chuckled. Confusion momentarily stalled Peter’s stomach.

“Kid, you do realize this is your home too, right? You don’t need to _ask_ to go to the bathroom. FRIDAY knows you, bud; she’ll let you back in.”

Peter only nodded, forgetting his mentor wasn’t looking at him, before walking out the lab doors and proceeding to sprint the rest of the way to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, knowing FRIDAY would definitely alert Tony in a few moments’ time and didn’t want him to be around after _it_ happened. One, because it was gross. Two, because it was embarrassing. And three…well, because it was _embarrassing_.

Peter collapsed in front of the toilet and retched, wondering how he even had anything in his stomach to throw up. He didn’t marvel for too long, though, as rapid knocks hammered against the door only a minute after round one. 

“Peter, let me in right now or I swear to-“

His stomach twisted, and the rest of Mr. Stark’s threat was drowned out by round two. 

Sweat rolled down Peter’s forehead even while he shivered; he knew his fever hadn’t gone away and that it had the capability of doing the whole ‘cold sweat’ thing, but it was still odd to experience. Odd, and a little unsettling. 

Peter felt so weak. It was stupid, and he hated it. He was Spider-Man! A _superhero_! Superheroes didn’t get sick—especially not when they had actual, DNA-altering, _real life_ superpowers. Captain America didn’t get sick; Wanda didn’t get sick; the _Hulk_ didn’t get sick. It was just Peter, and somehow that hurt even worse than the pain now remaking its appearance in his stomach. 

A loud _crash_ ensued and a hand was suddenly on Peter’s back, rubbing small little circles. Peter looked to the left to see the door busted open and groaned, sinking down in shame. 

“You’re alright, Pete,” Tony said in a soothing voice that sounded dangerously close to Uncle Ben’s. Tears pricked Peter’s eyes, both in frustration and a sudden sorrow that he hadn’t had before. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Peter argued weakly, hating the way his body was slumped against the toilet, too weak to pick itself up. 

“Getting sick is normal, Underoos,” Tony said in a reassuring tone that somehow didn’t assure Peter at all. “Though, next time you’re about to blow chunks, it’d be nice to know in advance. And if you can’t do that, the least you could do is _not_ lock the door behind you so I don’t have to have it repaired later.”

“Or you could just get rid of FRIDAY’s stalkerish, tattle-tale protocols on me and not have to break down the door in the first place,” Peter said, sounding more annoyed than he was. The truth was he was glad he wasn’t alone, and he was glad it was Mr. Stark keeping him company; his presence was comforting, even if it was embarrassing right at that very moment. 

“And never know when my kid is sick and keeping it not-so-cleverly hidden from me?” Tony drawled in an accusatory tone. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Just as Peter opened his mouth to argue and take offense to the first part of his mentor’s statement, he went on to add, “But that’s a conversation for another time. Are you done yet, Underoos?”

Peter managed to swallow his pride and nod, accepting the tissue and cup of mouthwash Tony provided him. 

It was quiet the rest of the time, Tony only speaking up to tell him he was forcing Peter to go to bed and that there would be no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Peter begrudgingly accepted (as if he had had any other choice) and was pleasantly surprised when his mentor helped him up and allowed him to lean on him. Peter wobbled a bit on the way to his bedroom, struggling to stay steady but not worrying once about falling because he knew Tony would never let that happen. 

“In bed, kid.”

Sometime they’d reached his bedroom, and Peter hadn’t even noticed. 

He practically collapsed onto the ruffled sheets, not even realizing the pillow he usually used was still on the couch until Tony lifted his head and slipped another one beneath it. “I’ll check and see where Bruce is at so he can look you over, but until then you need to sleep,” his mentor said, and it would’ve sounded more like an order had his voice not been so soft with concern. 

“I’m fine,” Peter mumbled not-so-convincingly, his eyes heavy and his assertion underwhelming. 

“You’re sick, Pete,” Tony plainly stated. 

“No,” Peter argued, his eyes opening a bit more again. “Superheroes don’t get sick.”

Tony snorted. “Right,” he said at a level so sarcastic that Peter rolled his eyes before he could even start his quip. “How could _I_ , a genius with an IQ of 170 who literally survived off his own brain power on multiple occasions, have forgotten that simple fact?”

Peter huffed, having nothing to say in reply to the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. Though, he thought he could safely remove ‘playboy’ from that list now—it was hard to miss the diamond ring sitting on Pepper’s finger. 

Peter jumped in surprise when his mentor’s hand rested on his forehead and began running through his matted curls much like he had that morning. He opened his eyes (that he hadn’t remembered shutting) to see Tony in a chair beside his bed looking softer and more comfortable than Peter thought he’d ever seen. 

“Mr. Stark?” he whispered, afraid to break the silence in fear of scaring him away. 

Tony gently shushed him, looking just as mesmerized by his hand’s movements as Peter was. “Sleep, Underoos.”

It wasn’t until Peter was seconds away from going under that he realized what Mr. Stark had said again in the bathroom. 

_My kid._

* * *

Gentle voices slowly brought Peter out of his feverish rest. As he woke he was able to focus on what the voices were saying, even though it took everything in him to. 

“-wake him up?”

“I can come back later. If he hasn’t been sleeping well, it may be best for him to sleep it off for now.”

“Yeah, I just…I just want to make sure the kid is okay. I guess I didn’t think he could get sick with his DNA. I mean, Capsicle doesn’t get the flu anymore, right?”

Peter was finally able to link the voices to Mr. Stark’s and Doctor Banner’s. He wanted to say something—even just _open his eyes_ —but his tongue was heavy and his head was foggy, and words weren’t an option. 

“Just because Peter has enhanced DNA that comes with an accelerated healing factor doesn’t mean he can’t get hit by common stomach bugs,” Bruce said in a soft, assuring voice. “In fact, there’s one going around now. It makes total sense that he would catch it with his…extracurriculars. His healing factor doesn’t mean he’s invincible; it just means he heals more quickly than the average person. If we apply the same concept to internal ‘wounds’, such as the flu, then Peter should be bouncing back in one or two days’ time.” He paused for a moment as if just now acknowledging Tony’s last sentence. “Also, no—Steve doesn’t get sick to my knowledge. But he and Peter also don’t have the same enhancements, which means their bodies will react differently to things like viruses.”

Mr. Stark sighed and Peter could practically see him acceptingly yet hesitantly nod. “I just…I hate seeing the kid like this, you know? I have no idea how to take care of a sick kid or how to comfort them or if I should force them to eat something even if they don’t think they’ll be able to keep it down or how often I should wake them up to check on them or-“

“Tony,” Bruce interrupted, and at that moment Peter was finally able to crack open his eyes to see the doctor’s hand placed reassuringly on his mentor’s shoulder, “I promise you’re doing just fine. The only way you’d do something wrong is by overthinking it, okay?”

Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Mr. Stark?” a weak and scratchy voice called out. 

Both heads snapped toward Peter, and it took the boy a moment to realize that the weak and scratchy voice had been his own. He swallowed and attempted to open his eyes further so he could see his mentor more clearly (who had now made his way to Peter’s bedside). 

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

Peter blinked. He hadn’t even thought about that yet, but now that he had a small, involuntary whimper that he hoped didn’t sound _too_ pathetic escaped his lips. 

By the look on Tony’s face, he was pretty sure he hadn’t managed it. 

“I guess that’s pretty self-explanatory. No—don’t even try to cover that up with some lame excuse, Underoos,” Tony said when he saw Peter wince and open his mouth. A few moments passed. “Do you need a trash can?” his mentor asked next, eyeing the way Peter’s face seemed to be paler than before. The boy debated for a moment before settling on a slow shake of his head. 

“It just hurts,” he whispered truthfully, hating the way his stomach ached and twisted and stabbed, only getting worse with each passing minute. 

Tony was concerned, seemingly with no words, which led Bruce to make his way over. If Peter wasn’t so concerned with the off chance that the aching and twisting and stabbing would turn into another puking session, he probably would’ve been freaking out over the fact that _Bruce_ _Banner_ was his _doctor_. 

He couldn’t wait to tell Ned. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Bruce smiled. “I think I’m the last to be introduced, but I admit that’s my fault. I’ve been too busy in other areas of the Tower to come hang out with the team.” 

“It’s-it’s nice to meet you, too, Doctor Banner sir,” Peter said quietly, forcing himself not to let his first words to the famous scientist be whimpers of pain. 

“Do you think you can sit up for me, Peter?”

_No._

“Yeah,” Peter whispered, licking his lips with half determination and half anxiety. He really didn’t know if he had the strength or energy to do anything other than breathe, keep his eyes open, and speak when spoken to, and even those simple, brainless tasks were proving to be difficult.

Deciding that he didn’t want to make an embarrassment of himself during his first meeting with Doctor Banner, he wedged his elbows underneath him and used what little energy he had left to attempt to push himself up. His arms shook at the effort and his breathing grew heavier, his reserve quickly draining. 

Suddenly his mentor’s hands were there too, one of them keeping his head in place as if somehow knowing the room was spinning and the other on his lower back. Peter wanted to scream in frustration at the situation because he was _Spider-Man_ and he once lifted an entire _building_ by himself, but now he couldn’t even lift _himself_ by himself. 

Bruce, of course, noticed the assistance but instead of commenting on it decided only to ask when the last time he ate was before pulling out his stethoscope. 

“This morning,” Tony automatically answered, probably ecstatic to feel like he could do at least _something_. At that realization Peter’s heart suddenly dropped and he found himself caught between a rock and a hard place.“We made pancakes for the whole team.”

“This morning?” Bruce frowned, as if coming to the conclusion Peter already knew; only skipping one meal that day shouldn’t have made Peter as weak as he was, even with his crazy metabolism. But skipping two both today and the day before and not properly resting or hydrating? That was a different story, and it was one Peter would have to tell even though he didn’t want to. 

Like, _really_ didn’t want to. 

Bruce eyed the boy in slight suspicion and sympathy. “And how many pancakes did you eat, Peter?”

He looked at Mr. Stark for only a second before looking back down. “I…I didn’t have one,” he mumbled quietly. 

“What?” Tony asked, sincerely confused. “You said that pancakes sounded all right!”

“I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Peter shamefully admitted, hanging his head. 

After a brief pause, Bruce asked his next question much more hesitantly than the last one. “Did you eat at all yesterday?”

“I didn’t have breakfast or lunch,” Peter said. “I had some Thai later, but I…” He looked at his mentor guiltily before hanging his head once more and dropping his voice to a low murmur that had both men craning forward to hear. “I-I threw it up later. I managed to get FRIDAY to believe that I was just anxious about spending my first night away from home so she didn’t tell you, and I wasn’t running a fever yet so it was fine.”

Tony’s lips pursed, and somehow Peter knew that he would be reprogramming FRIDAY’s protocols the second he believed Peter was safe to leave alone for awhile. They both stayed quiet throughout Peter’s checkup, the only voice being Bruce’s asking him to breathe as he moved his stethoscope to various locations. Peter eventually looked away from his mentor, the hidden hurt in his eyes too much to take. 

“Where does it hurt, Peter?” Bruce asked after he’d gone through his normal routine and taken his temperature. 

“My stomach,” he answered quietly.

“Is there anywhere specific it’s hurting?” he asked next. 

Peter thought for a second. “Not really. It…it just hurts. Everywhere. Maybe down towards the lower part more? But the top hurts, too.”

Bruce nodded. “And how’s your head? Any migraines or headaches?”

“It’s foggy,” Peter answered immediately. “And I’m also kind of dizzy.”

“Well,” Bruce said, taking a step back, “the fog is to be expected; it almost always comes with being sick. The dizziness is most likely dehydration and malnutrition, so I’m going to prescribe you eight ounces of water and a saltine before you go back to sleep again and then some electrolytes for when you wake up. Hopefully by then you’ll be able to keep some Gatorade down. In the meantime, I’ll work on making some Peter-strength anti-nausea medication and get someone to bring up the water and crackers for you.”

Neither boy made a move, Peter too afraid to face his mentor and his mentor too frustrated to look away. 

“I, um, I guess I’ll just head out, then? And you can call me if you need me?” Bruce said at the door. 

“Thank you, Bruce,” Tony replied hollowly, dismissing the man from the teen’s bedroom. There were a few minutes of awkward, tense silence. Finally he said with a concerned edge, “Why the _hell_ did you keep that from me, Peter? I thought we agreed on no more self-sacrificial bullshit.”

“I didn’t want to worry you-“ Peter tried. 

“Nope,” Tony interrupted, wagging a finger. “Self-sacrificial bullshit, remember? I don’t want to catch you doing that again. I don’t need a heart attack at my age, and I certainly don’t need my teenager hiding things from me. So don’t do it again, you hear me? When that food and water gets up here you _are_ going to eat it, and I’m going to sit right here and watch to make sure you don’t feed it to the imaginary dog. Capeesh?”

There were so many things Peter could have said at that point if he’d had the strength and was in the right state of mind, all the way from quietly agreeing to snarking back. And no matter how much Peter wanted to say something about him sounding like a dad, he didn’t.

In the end, he said nothing at all. 

* * *

Peter was supposed to be asleep a long time ago. He didn’t know exactly when Mr. Stark had left to go to the lab (his location was information obtained from FRIDAY) to work on who knew what, but it had to have been several hours by now. The sunlight shining through his windows had now turned to moonlight, and even though Peter was completely and utterly exhausted, he couldn’t seem to get comfortable enough to actually fall asleep. His stomach still hurt, but more around his belly button now. And rather than aches and nausea, it was turning into sharp, rhythmic pains that shot all the way through his body. A headache had formed since then, but Peter had a feeling it was due to the fact his face had been scrunched together in pain for so long. 

The cracker he’d managed to eat came back up later in the night; Tony was there before he could blink twice. How he got to his bedroom from the lab so fast was beyond him, but he didn’t think about it too much. It hurt to think. 

Mr. Stark stayed until Peter’s breathing was even and slipped out again, but still Peter wasn’t sleeping. Only resting. And if he did manage to fall asleep sometime in there it didn’t do much good, as the discomfort of his fever and the pain constantly kept him just on the rim of consciousness. So he laid there until the morning light and listened to Steve get ready for his run like he had the previous morning, the only difference being this morning he wasn’t planning on joining him. 

Peter figured out pretty quickly that as long as he drank a sufficient amount of water from the cup by his bedside every couple hours, he remained unbothered. Even Tony didn’t check on him, either because he didn’t want to wake him up or because he had lost track of time. Peter knew his lack of appearance was for good reason and a decision made only in his best interest, but it still hurt a little. 

Peter ended up eating another cracker, knowing that if he wanted to remain unbothered food was something he needed to keep up as well. Maybe he’d bump it up to two crackers later, but for now, one seemed like the best bet. 

After another hour of silence, Peter groaned and shakily pushed himself off the bed. It took a few tries to get his legs to hold him up, but when he could finally walk he made his way down to the lab, ignoring the pain that was somehow worse when he moved. 

FRIDAY let him into the lab, surprisingly. It wasn’t until Peter was inside that he realized why. 

“Kid, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

He wasn’t alone. 

Peter swallowed, looking across the room at his mentor, dirty with motor oil and grease. One of his cars was lifted, meaning he must’ve been doing some kind of work to it. Probably trying to make it more environmentally safe or whatever; it was a new kick he was on. 

“I couldn’t.”

Tony frowned and wiped his hands off on a towel before making his way over to the teen. He unthinkingly placed a hand on his forehead and stared at the dark rings beginning to form under his eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Peter shrugged and looked to the ground, letting his mentor lead him to a nearby bench. They both sat down, Peter immediately letting out a breath and resting his head on his dad’s shoulder. Tony’s hand came up to run through Peter’s curls again, and his eyes suddenly felt heavy. 

_His dad._

Peter’s breath hitched as he realized what he’d just called Mr. Stark. Sure, he’d thought about how much his mentor was like a father figure to him before, but that word— _dad_ —had never slipped out like that before, not even in his own head. He hadn’t dared to think of him like that because he didn’t think for a second that that feeling would be reciprocated, but maybe… _maybe_ …

He thought about the number of times _‘my kid’_ had slipped from Tony’s mouth, and suddenly he was wide awake. 

His da- _mentor_ sighed at realizing this and broke the silence. “So, why did you come down here?”

“I…I dunno,” Peter said, thinking for a moment before answering. “I guess I just wanted to distract myself with something. Keep my hands busy.”

Tony nodded in understanding and stood up, making Peter wince at the sudden movement. 

“Tell you what, kiddo,” he said, moving around the lab to grab his Iron Man helmet. “I’m not going to let you work on Karen’s code because looking at a screen is definitely not going to help with the insomnia, so how about you recalibrate this and move the wiring around a bit to expand my field of vision?”

Peter nodded and managed a small, grateful smile before placing the (unusually heavy) helmet on the table in front of him. He got to work. So did Tony. 

They worked in comfortable silence for awhile, the tinkering of metal and the sound of sparks flying the only noise in the room. Peter was sure his mentor had turned off whatever music he’d been listening to to accommodate for Peter, and he was thankful for it; AC/DC would’ve been a bit much at the moment. 

As he was working, he let his mind drift. It inevitably ended up on the topic of his mentor slash father figure, no matter how much Peter didn’t want to think about it. It confused him, and quite honestly he didn’t know what the right terminology was. Dad? Tony? Mr. Stark? He’d called him all three, though the former had only been in his head, thank goodness. But even if it had confused Peter at the time, it had also felt nice. _Right_. 

Peter came to a conclusion: while he figured out what was safe to say aloud, he’d allow himself to call Mr. Stark _‘Dad’_ in his head. _Only_ in his head, though, and _only_ when it happened without a second thought. He couldn’t risk it otherwise. 

But things never went as planned for the Parkers, and Peter Benjamin should’ve known it. 

“Kid, I’m going to go grab some food before Pepper yells at me. You gonna be alright until I get back?” Mr. Stark spoke up, wiping his hands off and coming back toward Peter. 

He forced a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be back soon with some Gatorade that I special ordered last night after Bruce’s ‘prescription’. But,” he added, “full disclosure, I ordered twenty cases because I typed a zero at the end of two by accident, so you better drink it, Parker. Or else,” he said with an accusing finger pointed at the boy, walking backwards out of the lab. 

“Got it,” he laughed as the door shut behind the man, not caring that laughing made the pain worse, before returning to his work. 

It was five minutes later when the pain suddenly started to increase to a point where he could no longer focus on anything but that. He was dizzy, too, he noted. Like he was going to pass out. Peter grit his teeth and carefully moved the wires back into place before curling up on the bench. He just needed to lay down for a bit. That would fix it. 

He closed his eyes.

* * *

_Wrong_ , he thought when he awoke a minute later. He would’ve thought it’d been longer had it not been for his dad’s still missing presence. 

He whimpered as a burst of pain stabbed him in the lower right abdomen, and his brain inconveniently and unexpectedly took him to the emotions and memories of Homecoming night: the terror when Liz’s dad pulled out a gun and could’ve shot him but didn’t; chasing after him and getting a rude awakening from Shocker as soon as he stepped out of the high school doors; his heart sickeningly dropping in realization just before the building did; clinging for his life on his dad’s plane and knowing if he showed a chink in his armor for even a mere second he’d be dead; the pain shooting through every point in his body as Vulture threw him down again and again _and_ _again and again-_

“FRI…FRIDAY?” Peter whimpered. He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but the warm drops felt cool trailing down his abnormally hot face. 

“Yes, Peter?” the AI immediately answered, sounding concerned. But maybe that was just Peter’s imagination. 

“I-I want Dad,” he choked out between sobs. 

“I’ll alert sir.”

He didn’t give a second thought to FRIDAY knowing who _‘Dad’_ was.

The stabs were constant now, and Peter swore he’d never felt anything more painful. The room spun; the pain was almost too much to bear. This sucked even more than the time he got stabbed and had to stitch up the gaping hole by himself on the bathroom floor, his dark blood a sharp contrast to the stark white tile. 

No, Dad still didn’t know about that one, and hopefully he never would.

Peter whined—apparently, thinking about gore was _not_ a good idea when you were sick—and only had enough time to tip his head over the side of the bench before throwing up a single saltine and bile. 

He wasn’t so sure this was the flu anymore. 

“I want Dad,” Peter whimpered again, those words the only ones he could get out; that was the only thing he knew. 

It felt like a knife was stabbing him in the same spot over and over again, subsequently creating never-ending waves of pain that jolted Peter to the bone. He couldn’t move without making it worse; he couldn’t breathe without sobbing; he couldn’t talk without whimpering. 

The room was still spinning, and the possibility that maybe Peter really had passed out rather than fallen asleep a few minutes ago entered his mind. It would make sense then why he was only out for a small while and why he woke up with exacerbated conditions. 

Peter wasn’t sure of a lot of things at that point—he wasn’t even sure if his eyes were open or closed—but what he did know was this:

This definitely was _not_ the flu. 

A loud _bang_ sounded, making Peter jump and immediately burst into another round of tortured and confused sobs. He hated that he didn’t know what was going on, and he hated that he was only now coming to the conclusion that the flu wasn’t _this_ painful. 

“-hear me? Talk to me, kid. I gotta know what’s happening so I can tell Bruce and Helen when they get everything set up. Pete, c’mon-“ 

The voice sounded muffled and warped as if Peter was submerged in water. It wasn’t until his dad’s face slowly entered into view that he got his answer as to whether his eyes were open or closed. He whimpered again, and a comforting hand flew up to shakily run through his hair (though, Peter could tell he was trying to hide the shaking).

“You’re scaring me, Pete. Talk to me.”

Peter sobbed and opened his mouth just long enough to whimper, “I’m sorry I threw up on your floor.”

An sound of disbelief was heard, followed by, “Seriously, kid? FRIDAY tells me you passed out and woke up in extreme distress, then on my way here she alerts me once more to tell me you were asking for me and then twice again to tell me you threw up, and now that I’m here you’re _apologizing_? You’ve got some nerve, Underoos. I’d say you get it from me—you know, self-sacrificial bullshit and everything—but I’m not usually one for apologies. I don’t think I’ve said the word ‘sorry’ to anyone but Pepper—because I owe that woman infinite apologies—in six and a half years.” 

Peter would’ve laughed if he could, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to again. He couldn’t even _think_ about participating in any type of movement since he didn’t think he could handle anymore pain without passing out. Maybe that’s why he was breathing so shallowly—that, probably, and the uncontrollable cries and whimpers escaping his mouth no matter how much he wished they would stop. 

With his free hand, his dad yanked stressfully at his own hair. “I know I’m rambling but you’re scaring the shit out of me, Pete, and dealing with this level of stress launches me into about thirty-two thousand coping mechanisms I’ve never learned to deal with. I just-I need to-“ Tony sighed in frustration, cutting himself off and resorting to a simple, “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

This time Peter did laugh through his sobs, then gave another pitiful whimper as it sent a shockwave through his body, both numbing and stunning him momentarily. When he finally felt as if he could form words again, he cried and choked out, “It hurts, Dad.”

There was a pause as the heaviness of the word settled between them; somehow, Tony calling Peter his kid and Peter calling him his dad were completely different. A title made it official, he supposed. Because there was no going back now, and if Peter was even somewhat coherent he’d be trying to do just that. But it’d slipped out, and now Peter couldn’t take it back. 

The pause didn’t last long, thankfully. In fact, Tony seemed to soften up considerably after what Peter said sank in. His shoulders released some of the tension they’d been holding and his voice dropped back down to its normal, comforting tone. “I know, Pete. I know it does. But you’ve gotta hold on for a little while longer, okay?”

Peter couldn’t do anything but nod, not wanting to hold on at all and just wanting his body to _give in_ , but because his dad asked him to he would try—because while everyone liked to point out that Peter had Tony wrapped around his finger, they never seemed to understand that the reverse applied as well.

“Boss, Bruce wanted me to relay the message that everything is prepped and ready for Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY said after some time had passed. How much time Peter wasn’t sure; his sense of time was a little off at the moment. 

“Tell Bruce we’ll be up in a few minutes,” Tony replied, sighing as Peter whimpered at what was to come. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m stealing your thunder or anything here, kid, but trust me, this is going to hurt me as much as it’s going to hurt you.”

“Please, no,“ Peter begged, sobbing even more. “I don’t wanna move. I _can’t_ move, Dad. I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t_ -“

“Hey,” Tony said soothingly, running a gentle hand over his face. “It’s gonna be okay, Pete. Try to calm down and catch your breath so you don’t psych yourself out; it always makes things worse. I’m going to be there the whole time, Underoos.”

Peter started up at Tony with such a frightened, wide-eyed look that it momentarily stunned the man into silence. “What’s gonna happen?” he asked, his voice quiet and full of apprehension.

Tony swallowed. _Hard_. If anyone had told him two days ago that he would be praying for his kid to pass out from pain, he probably would’ve laughed in their faces before chugging the rest of his coffee and walking out of the room, most likely to the lab to work with his favorite teenager. 

Now he wanted nothing more. 

“Well,” Tony started, clearing his throat to get past the lump of emotion sitting there, “first I’m going to carry you up to the med bay where Bruce and Helen will put you under so they can figure out what’s going on, then we’ll go from there.”

“Is there…am I going to have surgery?” Peter asked, his voice wobbling. 

Tony closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Peter’s. “I don’t know, Pete. Maybe. Probably. They’re prepared for it just in case.”

Peter’s breath hitched. A pause. “You’ll be there the whole time?”

“I’m not leaving your side, kiddo,” Tony answered, choosing to leave out that couldn’t necessarily be true if surgery was involved; there was no way either Bruce or Helen would let him stay in the room and watch his son be operated on. But Peter was smart enough to know that, and Tony had a feeling he was only looking for comfort. 

A small hand gripped weakly onto Tony’s arm, making him pull back in surprise. Peter looked small and terrified but determined. 

“Let’s just…let’s just do it. The sooner the better, right?” He didn’t sound so sure himself, but at least he wasn’t begging Tony not to move him anymore because there was no way he could’ve gone ahead with the plan if he was. 

“Right,” Tony agreed, trying to sound as confident as he could, then maneuvered his arms as gently as possible underneath Peter’s frame. Peter winced and whimpered, slowly moving his hands to grip onto the front of Tony’s shirt. “On three, okay?” At Peter’s hesitant nod, Tony took a breath and started the countdown. “One, two, _three_.”

Tony lifted, and Peter sharply screamed before finally, _finally_ passing out. Relief flooded through the older man and he hurried to the med bay from there, choosing not to look at his son’s pale and tear-stained face below him. 

“I’ve got you, Pete,” he whispered despite knowing he couldn’t hear him. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

When Peter woke up, it wasn’t right away. It was rather slowly, like fighting to the top of the waves he’d been holding his breath under for too long. He could hear muffled sounds as he got closer to the top, the rhythmic beeping and—were those _snores?_ —almost soothing him enough to send him back into the dark abyss below. He was tired; that much he knew. He wanted nothing more than to let sleep wash back over him, but he’d already made it this far and he refused to sink back to the bottom. 

A few determined kicks later and Peter broke the surface. His eyes flew open with a gasp that quickly turned into a dry-throated cough, making him realize his mouth was much too dry. His small swell of pride at breaking the waves soon morphed into guilt when his snoring— _so that_ was _snoring he’d heard_ —mentor startled awake. 

It was slightly entertaining to watch the usually composed man stumble to get Peter a glass of water, his chair almost tipping over in the process. The boy might have even giggled had it not been for his dizzy head and overall grogginess. 

“Here,” Tony said, proffering a small, plastic cup. Peter pushed himself to a slightly upward position, wincing at the pull in his lower right abdomen. He frowned and redirected his fingers from the outstretched cup to that location. “Yeah, you’ve got some stitches there, bud.”

“I don’t…” Peter trailed off, fighting the fog in his head in order to figure out what had happened. “Surgery?”

“Yes, surgery,” Tony confirmed, using his free hand to help him up. Instead of waiting for Peter to take the cup, he brought it up to his lips himself and tipped it just enough for Peter to drink. Peter would have been more embarrassed about it had he been more mentally aware. 

“Why?” Peter asked when the cup was gone, his shaking arms slipping out from underneath him. Tony reflexively caught his collapsing body and lowered him gently back down.

“Appendicitis,” he replied with a small yawn. “You got out of surgery about five hours ago; you weren’t supposed to wake up until about four hours from now when I would be bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready to give you the biggest lecture in human history, but I guess we can’t always get what we want.”

Peter smiled sheepishly at that, knowing his metabolism had probably burned through whatever they’d given him already. “Sorry.”

Tony smiled tiredly and sat back in his chair. Peter finally noticed the dark bags under his mentor’s eyes and wondered how long he’d been sleeping before Peter woke him—which, if Peter knew him at all, probably wasn’t long. He wanted to apologize for that too, but somehow he doubted Tony would accept it. 

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” he asked, brushing a curl out of the boy’s face. Peter closed his eyes in content for a moment before forcing them back open. 

“I dunno,” he answered. “Light.”

“Yeah, I’d say so, kiddo,” his mentor laughed amusedly with a twinkle in his eye, “They gave you enough drugs to take out a small army; either you burned through that way faster than you should have or you were just too damn stubborn to follow the plan. Which, knowing you, it’s probably more the latter than the former.”

Peter giggled at that and pretended to zip his lips; he knew it was definitely the latter, but he’d never admit it aloud. The movement was slow and sluggish even though his arm felt like it was floating, but Tony didn’t seem to notice. He simply rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair, giving a short, “Go back to bed, twerp. There’s some things we need to talk about when you wake up—preferably when you’re not high as a kite.”

There was a moment’s pause. “You’ll stay?”

His mentor’s face softened at that. “Of course, I’ll stay. I promised you I would, didn’t I?”

Peter frowned, trying to remember. He was about ready to give up when a memory quickly flashed through his mind. 

_You’ll be there the whole time?_

_I’m not leaving your side, kiddo._

And with that he nodded and let himself relax, slipping back under the gentle waves. 

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmured, not staying awake long enough to hear his mentor’s reply or feel his hand brush along his cheek. 

“Anything for my kid.”


	2. Part Two: "The Talk"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Dad' talk between Peter and Tony that you've all been so patiently waiting for :)

When Peter woke up a second time, he felt much more aware than before. He still had a cannula breathing extra oxygen into him, yes, but his limbs no longer felt like a hundred pounds and his brain wasn’t muddled by fog. This time he was able to take in his surroundings, taking note of how homey the hospital room felt. He was sure this was only because he was at Stark Tower’s med bay and not an actual hospital, but he appreciated it all the same. 

One thing he didn’t appreciate as much, though, was being alone. Peter fuzzily remembered his mentor getting him water which meant he had to have been here at some point, proven by the half-empty cup still sitting by his bedside. 

Peter grunted as he sat up, protectively putting an arm over his stomach. He was exhausted despite having slept for probably a long while if the glaring sun outside the window meant anything. He blinked lethargically, letting a yawn escape before taking the leftover water and gulping it down. His mouth was incredibly dry—so much so that his lips were cracking. 

“Hey, FRIDAY?” Peter asked, his voice weak but steady. “How long have I been asleep?”

“You’ve been asleep for approximately twenty-nine hours, Peter,” the AI answered, and Peter’s eyes immediately widened. 

“Twenty-nine _hours_?!” he exclaimed as he leaned forward, wincing when the movement disturbed the stitches he remembered Tony telling him he had. He wanted to look at them, but he also didn’t want to pull up his entire gown to do it. 

“Yes, Peter.” She paused for a moment as if debating whether or not to give him extra information. Eventually her coding must have convinced her to do so, as she followed up with, “It seems your healing factor induced you into a deep sleep while it worked.”

“Huh,” Peter muttered, shaking his head. He’d known his healing factor hadn’t _left_ , per se, but the whole situation still confused him. He didn’t let himself worry about that long, however, as FRIDAY’s next line had him worrying ( _panicking_ ) over something completely different. 

“Shall I alert your father to your consciousness?”

“My...my what?” Peter choked out, his breaths growing shorter as he suddenly recalled being curled up on the bench in the lab, vomit underneath him as he told the AI he wanted his dad. His _dad_ , who was luckily out of the room but probably gladly so as he wondered how exactly to tell Peter he didn’t want him in his life anymore. 

_Shit._

Tears sprung to his eyes as he quickly said, “No—no, FRI, just-just give me a sec.”

“Of course, Peter.”

Peter was suddenly thankful for the cannula, even though it was starting to get uncomfortable against his skin. He forced himself to breathe, closing his eyes and thinking of only calm, _safe_ things.

_Calm and safe...calm and safe...calm and safe..._

Aunt May’s arms around him after he came back from Spider-Manning, Ned’s constant fanboying, and Uncle Ben’s laugh as Peter sat on his shoulders and swore he could take on the whole world. Accidentally calling Stark Tower ‘home’ in front of Aunt May and the woman being so happy her nephew had a second home that she cried.

The sound of AC/DC as it blasted through the lab, Dum-E’s whirring, and the consistent sound of metal hitting metal. The way his mentor’s face lit up every time Peter walked through the door, making him feel wanted in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

_That_ was his new normal. _That_ was his new safe. And as much as Peter wanted to deny it, his mentor was more than just a mentor to him. He was, in every way, shape, and form, his dad, and though he was terrified Tony would kick him to the curb after this, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret what he’d said. 

If luck was on Peter’s side, maybe Tony wouldn’t remember it at all. Maybe he even chalked it down to Peter being delirious from the pain and rolled with it so as to not to freak him out anymore than he already was. 

There was only one way to find out. 

“Okay, FRI,” Peter said quietly as he opened his eyes, breathing deep. “You can alert him now. Just...just don’t tell him I told you to do it. Let him think you did it on your own.”

While he knew it probably disn’t make a difference in how Tony thought of him, Peter didn’t want to seem too needy. He was sixteen now, almost an _adult_ , so he could take care of himself; he didn’t need his mentor to do that for him. The only reason he’d told FRIDAY to get Tony in the first place was because he knew she’d have to sooner or later due to the protocols Peter was sure Tony had, and doing it soon after he woke up made it more believable that Peter hadn’t given the okay. That, and because he didn’t want to be alone anymore. 

He hated being alone. 

As he waited for Tony to inevitably appear, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, hating the way his legs almost collapsed from underneath him. Luckily he was holding onto the side of the bed, but his arms were pretty weak, too, so that limited his time being upright.

Finding a way to maneuver the IV so it didn’t pull out as he walked away was difficult but not impossible. The oxygen, however, had to go. It surprised him how much more difficult it was to breathe without it but didn’t linger too long on the thought, grabbing the empty cup and shakily walking over to the sink.

Peter couldn’t help but be frustrated at how much he was wobbling. He figured the lack of food probably didn’t help, but he was hoping an increase in fluids would (mostly because that was all he had access to at the moment, and even that was a struggle). 

Peter had just started on his second cup of water when the door to the room opened, startling the boy and causing him to hurriedly grab onto the edge of the counter before he fell. 

“What are you—Peter, I swear to God if you don’t get back on that bed in five seconds-” his mentor said, a mixture of anger and surprise seeping into his tone as he quickly moved to support him. “Exactly what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Peter smiled sheepishly at him. “Getting some water?”

“And you couldn’t have, I dunno, _waited_ for me?”

“In my defense,” Peter said trying to hold back an amused grin at his mentor’s distress, “I didn’t know how long you’d be, and I was _parched_.”

Tony huffed, running a hand over his face and shaking his head. “This isn’t a _joke_ , Peter.”

Seeing his mentor authentically frustrated with him made the humor of the situation lower considerably for Peter, and he winced before quietly murmuring, “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Something like a frown crossed Tony’s face before he shook himself out of it, taking the cup of water from his hands and setting it aside. 

“Hey-!”

“Nope,” Tony interrupted. “You don’t get any more of this until your little spider butt is back in bed.”

Peter grumbled and rolled his eyes but complied, turning and (with the help of his mentor) walking back to the bed. He tried hard not to sigh too loud in relief when Tony fitted the cannula back under his nose. From the looks of it, though, he didn’t do a very good job. 

“You’re still weak, Underoos,” Tony said after seeing Peter considerably relax. “You’ve had no food for over twenty-four hours plus nothing in your stomach beforehand, and they had to give you round the clock drugs to keep you knocked out during and right after surgery. Having a ruptured appendix along with one of the speediest metabolisms in all of mankind does that to you,” he explained, finally handing over the water. Peter frowned and took it, gulping it down. 

“FRIDAY said my healing factor put me in some sort of induced sleep,” Peter said, looking at Tony inquisitively.

“After the majority of the drugs were out of your system, yes.” Tony plopped back into the chair by his bedside. “That’s what we could figure, anyway. Are you hungry?”

 _Yes_ , his mind instantly replied. His mouth, however, stayed shut. He shrugged, looking down and picking at his sheets. “I mean, it can wait. You just sat down and I know you’ve been busy taking care of me for awhile, so you can totally take a break if you need one. I can take care of myself.”

A hand rested on top of his. Peter looked up to see his mentor’s raised eyebrows and _‘are you kidding me’_ look. “Kid, I’m taking care of you because I _want_ to. Also, you and I both know you’re most certainly _not_ capable of taking care of yourself right now, so don’t lie and say you can,” he added, gesturing toward the cannula. Peter pursed his lips. “I know you hate being in this position, and, trust me, I hate it just as much as you do, but let me take care of you without any complaints for once, okay?” 

Peter stayed quiet, sighing softly to himself. His mentor paused as if just now realizing how uncharacteristic his words were for Tony Stark and opened his mouth to cover it up with, “I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s the least you could do for giving me nearly eight heart attacks in the span of three days.”

That managed to get a smile out of Peter. “Fine,” he relented. “I guess I’m hungry, then.”

Tony grinned. “That’s good to hear. Unfortunately, you won’t be receiving anything other than toast, crackers, and pudding for the next day or so, but at least it’s food.”

Peter made a face. “That’s not _real_ food.”

“I hate to break it to you, kid, but if you decide you want to eat anything other than that, your stomach isn’t going to be digesting _‘real’_ anything.”

“Okay,” Peter said, his nose scrunching up and his appetite considerably lowered, “that was totally not an image I needed to see right now.”

Tony shook his head at him with a chuckle. “How about we see how the water settles and in about an hour we reassess?” Peter nodded and sunk back into his pillows, relieved at the silence that filled the room afterward. However, the relief didn’t last long. “Sooo…” Tony drawled, looking directly at Peter. 

Peter gulped, and his heart skipped a beat before picking back up full speed ahead. “Sooo...what?”

“We need to have a talk, kiddo.”

A weight settled in Peter’s stomach, making him shift uncomfortably and look down at his lap away from his mentor’s accusing eyes. “What-what about?”

“I think we’ll start with your self-preservation skills and how utterly stupid it was to hide your symptoms from me,” Tony said with a sharp edge to his tone, though Peter could tell he wasn’t really angry. Just worried and maybe a _teensy_ bit frustrated that Peter let it get this far. But this topic was much better than the one he’d been anticipating, so he gladly responded. 

“I know it looks bad—“

“ _Bad_? Oh no, kid, it doesn’t just look _bad_ —it looks completely _idiotic_ and is seriously making me wonder what else you’ve kept hidden from me,” Tony snapped, and Peter shrunk in his seat, trying not to let the guilt in his eyes show for fear his mentor would grill him about the secrets he’d kept and the lies he’d told. 

“Mr. Stark—”

“Hell, kid,” Tony exhaled with an exhausted laugh that Peter knew wasn’t in response to humor. “The fever, the fatigue, the ‘stomach ache’, the lack of appetite, the inability to keep anything down—it all pointed to the flu, so we wrote it off as such. If we had known that when you said your stomach _‘hurt’_ you meant debilitating and excruciating pain, I think we could’ve caught this a little sooner.”

“But it wasn’t excruciating!” Peter was finally able to get in, seizing his opportunity to defend himself. “It just... _hurt_ , you know? Like when you hit your hip on the edge of the counter and you swear you’ve been stabbed or something because it hurts so bad? But then it fades away and you don’t pay any attention to it because you know that everyone has felt the same pain and at that point it’s just embarrassing?”

Tony studied the boy for a few moments, his soft yet skeptical eyes meeting Peter’s frantic ones. Peter wanted—no, _needed_ —him to understand that he wasn’t back on his ‘self-sacrificial bullshit’ as his mentor called it, taking excruciating pain as it came without telling anybody because he was too stubborn and hard-headed to admit weakness. 

There was once a time where Peter would’ve done it. In fact, it wasn’t too long ago that he’d hidden from Tony the full extent of what exactly the fight with Vulture on Homecoming night had entailed; but one night, after one too many nightmares and post panic attacks, he’d swung to the Tower where he’d broken down on the roof—the only place he could _breathe._ He’d sat there by himself, body racking with broken sobs, until his mentor had joined him in a panicked flurry, making FRIDAY scan him for any injuries.

What Tony hadn’t known until FRIDAY told him that his mentee wasn’t physically injured was that the condition Peter was in was caused by nothing other than his own head. Something Tony couldn’t just...fix. 

All it took for Peter to finally open up to the man about the gun in the car and the building collapsing on top of him was the understanding and sorrowful gleam in his mentor’s eyes that followed FRIDAY’s report. Somehow Tony had known without actually knowing, and that was the most comforting part of it all—that Peter wasn’t the only one who’d ever faced those feelings. That he wasn’t alone. That he’d be _okay_. 

However, if Peter had known one of his organs was on the verge of rupturing and causing him unbearable pain, he liked to think he would’ve told Tony (or at least done some research on his own and self-diagnosed). 

“Kid,” Tony eventually sighed, running a tired hand down his face and giving a small snort of a laugh. “I don’t know what’s more insane: the fact that you thought it was normal to have that kind of pain with the common flu or the fact that you‘re comparing that kind of pain to hitting your hip on the counter.”

Peter flushed but still attempted to defend himself. “But have you ever done it, Mr. Stark?! It hurts like hell!”

“Language,” was Tony’s automatic response. As Peter was rolling his eyes and about to make a comment on how that wasn’t _his_ line to cross, Tony went on. “Pete, I work in a lab almost every day with tables and countertops galore. _Of_ _course,_ I’ve hit my hip on the edge of one; I do it at least once a week. But there’s also only a few seconds where you’re convinced it’s hell-“

“Language,” Peter mocked under his breath. Choosing to ignore it, Tony continued. 

“-until it fades away and you’re good to go again. You’re telling me having a ruptured organ is just as temporary?”

He stayed quiet, shrinking a little under his mentor’s gaze. His only response was a mumbled, “It was just a metaphor,” and a slight pout as he crossed his arms and avoided eye contact. Tony chuckled, absentmindedly reaching over to tuck a stubborn curl back into place on Peter’s head. Peter softened just enough at the action to lighten up on the pout and look at his mentor for just one moment before flicking his eyes back down to his scratchy hospital gown. One would think that since it was the Avengers medical wing, the quality of the clothing would be better. It turns out that while everything else was of much, _much_ higher quality than a normal hospital—the food, the bed, the room, the channels on TV, the _actual_ TV—the gowns had to stay ‘for medical purposes’.

Peter couldn’t wait to change into sweatpants and one of Tony’s hoodies he’d been collecting. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“When do I get out of here?”

“Helen wants you under observation for at least 48 hours before she sends you off.” Before Peter could groan and complain some more, Tony raised an eyebrow and added, “She also said normally it’d be about a week for a case as serious as yours, but since you have your healing factor she was being generous enough to cut that time down by more than half.” Peter snapped his jaw shut. “That’s what I thought,” Tony said with an amused quirk of his lips. 

“Actually, I have a question about that,” Peter asked some time later after uncrossing his arms and relaxing back into his bed. 

“About what?”

“My healing factor,” Peter said, then realizing how vague that was, quickly added, “You know—why it didn’t take care of the internal damage.”

“Your healing factor was actually the reason why everything happened as sudden as it did,” Tony explained, looking quite comfortable in the chair accompanying his bedside (even though Peter was sure it couldn’t be). “Once it knew your appendix was inflamed, it immediately tried to heal it—just as it should have.”

“Then why...why didn’t it heal?” Peter asked weakly, feeling stupid for even having to ask. He knew how his healing factor worked, and he couldn’t wrap his mind around why it hadn’t worked this time around.

“Put simply, once an appendix is inflamed and appendicitis hits, it’s donezo. Kapeesh. _Nada_. It’s not an organ meant to be healed or replaced; it’s why doctors chop it out rather than try to repair it.” Peter made a face at his mentor’s choice of words, but it didn’t seem to affect Tony. “So when your healing factor started ’healing’ it brought the pain level down just enough for you to not be overly alarmed about it, but because of your lack of hydration and nutrition, it didn’t have enough energy to do it consistently; it’s why your pain levels differed so much from hour to hour.”

Peter frowned, trying to digest this information with his brain functioning at half capacity. “I get why it couldn’t heal the appendix specifically, I guess? But...but how did it make it _worse_?”

“That’s the thing; it _didn’t_ make it worse. Just simply camouflaged the pain until it became too big of an issue for it to handle.” At Peter’s continued frown as he tried to work it out in his head, his mentor went on with a tired exhale. “Pete, when your appendix finally burst, your healing factor could no longer contain it and you felt the pain you should’ve been experiencing steadily and progressively all at once.”

It was quiet for a minute or two. Eventually, a weak, “Oh,” slipped out of Peter’s lips. 

“Yeah, kid. _‘Oh’_ ,” he chuckled. 

Another beat of silence. 

“Does...does that mean I _can’t_ get the flu, then?”

Tony gave an exasperated snort at that. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about? You had an internal rupture that could have potentially killed you had your healing factor continued acting as a heavy painkiller, and you’re worried about the freaking _flu_?”

Peter grew a sheepish smile; he realized now how silly it sounded, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t still curious. But maybe that was something best to find out with time. Somehow, he didn’t think pushing the topic would squeeze out very many answers at this point. 

Tony slumped in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Never mind, kid. Just...let’s forget that piece of the conversation ever happened, yeah?”

“Fine,” Peter agreed. “But, in all seriousness, do you really think I could get the flu? Or is my DNA like Mr. Captain America’s and I’ll never catch the bug that goes around school every winter? Because I always did before I got bit but I didn’t last year, so do you think that was just a coincidence, like a stroke of luck, or do you think it was because of my new DNA?”

“You’re hopeless, Parker,” was all Tony said, laughing with his head shaking back and forth.

“Okay, but hear me out, Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed, missing the hurt look on his mentor’s face that had briefly shown up earlier as well. “There’s no _way_ I didn’t get sick due to luck, because I think we both know that. Parker luck is literally the _worst_ , so that just leaves coincidence and I don’t-”

“Pete, you know how much I love your senseless rambles, but please shut up for a second, will you?” Tony interrupted. Peter immediately stopped talking, his hands falling back down to his sides.

“Um...o-okay?” Peter said, frowning as he turned his gaze to his lap. He wasn’t going to lie—being told to shut up by someone he’d come to think of as a dad hurt a lot.

Obviously sensing his hurt, Tony sighed and took one of his hands, being careful not to disturb the IV. “I’m sorry, kid. Look, as soon as I get done having this conversation you can go right back to speculating whether or not you can get the flu, but can I talk to you about something for a minute?”

Peter couldn’t remember ever seeing his mentor so serious which made him more nervous than he’d like to admit. Tony was all sarcasm with a side of snark, not...not this. Whatever _this_ was.

“I-yeah, um...sure, Mr. Stark.”

His face tightened, and Peter’s frown deepened. “I know I don’t say this very often, but I love you, Pete. More than I thought I could love the fourteen-year-old kid running around New York City in red and blue pajamas every night, but it’s all the same.”

Peter blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. He swallowed, wondering if he should point out that that was actually the first time Tony had ever told him he loved him or if he should leave it be for fear his mentor already knew and was ignoring it; he decided on the latter. “I...I love you too, Mr. Stark. But what’s this about?”

Tony sighed, dropping his head and squeezing his hand. “ _That_. That’s exactly what this is about. The ‘Mr. Stark’ shi-crap.”

“What about it? I don’t think I-” Peter cut himself off, his eyes widening as he realized what exactly Mr. Stark had been referring to. His heart skipped a beat. “I’ve always called you Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark. I mean, yeah, it started out as good manners, but it just kinda stuck, ya know? I’m sorry if it offended you or something—I can totally call you Tony if you want. Actually, can we start with a transition? Like Mr. Tony? Just until I get used to the whole first name basis thing, then drop the ‘Mr.’?”

Tony had picked his head up somewhere in the middle of Peter’s ranting, eyed the nervous aversion of Peter’s eyes, the attempt to ignore what they both knew Tony was talking about, and was now wearing a half-smirk, half-smile. “Cut the crap, Pete,” he said. “I’m not mad at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Peter stumbled, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “I-I don’t know exactly what you’re referring to, Mr. Sta-”

“The ‘Dad’ thing, Pete,” Tony interrupted, raising an eyebrow. Peter blushed, nervously chewing at his lip.

“Right,” Peter said quietly. “The, uh...the ‘Dad’ thing.”

Tony didn’t speak, simply waiting—waiting for _him_. Waiting for Peter to explain himself because he wasn’t fooling anybody with the clueless act.

The silence dragged on for a few minutes’ time until it successfully made Peter’s nerves spill over the edge in the form of, as Tony had put it, ‘senseless rambling’.

“Okay, so, in my defense, you were never supposed to hear that! I was only saying it in my head because it slipped in my thoughts once and so I thought that it’d be okay as long as I just kept it to myself. But-but then I just—it hurt _so much_ , Mr. Stark, and I didn’t know what was happening and-and— _yeah_ , I was scared and couldn’t control what I was saying, but that doesn’t mean anything, right? People say a lot of stupid stuff when they’re drunk or drugged up or in a lot of pain and that’s completely normal, right? And FRIDAY is just really smart because she knew who I was actually asking for when I said I wanted Dad, but then I said it to your face and I’m so, _so_ sorry, Mr. Stark. I understand if you don’t want me around after this, and I really am sorry.”

There was a pause, Peter’s heavy breathing being the only noise in the room other than the consistent beeping of his heart monitor. 

“Wait—what the hell do you have to apologize for?”

His mentor’s bluntness took him by surprise. Peter blinked, only once this time. “Um...you know, for-for calling you ‘Dad’?”

Tony simply stared for a good minute and a half. Peter started to freak out all over again at that point, because maybe Tony had thought Peter hadn’t meant it when he’d called him ‘Dad’ and now that Peter apologized he was realizing he actually _had_ meant it—because who sincerely apologized for something they didn’t mean?—and why exactly had Peter chosen to speak at all?

Just as he was about to open his mouth and apologize again—for what, he wasn’t sure—Tony beat him to it. “And you’re sorry about that?” he asked softly, his eyes gentle.

“Yes! Because...because…” Peter was truly at a loss for words now. The truth was he _wasn’t_ sorry that he’d admitted to himself what his mentor was to him. The problem he had with it was that he’d admitted it _out loud_ to the one person he didn’t want finding out. He was afraid he’d lose Tony if he told him or that he would get Hulk-level angry and turn into some beast Peter didn’t recognize but fully knew he deserved to face. 

So, the only slightly valid reason he could come up with in that short amount of time came tumbling out of his mouth.

“Because you’d get mad and leave,” Peter mumbled, pulling his hand out of his mentor’s grip and twisting his fingers together in his lap.

Another short pause. A sigh. “Peter, bud...you really thought I’d leave?” Tony said, his voice low and close to breaking. At Peter’s hesitant nod, his face crumpled as if he were in pain and he asked, “ _Why?_ ”

Peter’s heart ached at his mentor’s rather emotional response and bit his lip to hold back the tears rapidly forming in his eyes. “Mr. Stark, I swear it’s not anything you did, it’s just...it’s just…” Peter finally looked up, a surge of love and longing and sadness and mourning passing through him, and suddenly he knew how his sentence ended. “Everyone leaves. _Everyone._ My mom, my-my _actual_ dad, Uncle Ben—everyone I love just _leaves,_ and I was afraid—I _am_ afraid—that as soon as I admit that I’ll lose you, too. It’s like I’m a walking death curse but only casting it on the ones I love, and it hurts so bad to watch them all go away.“ Peter cried, finally admitting what he’d kept to himself for _years_. He hiccupped on a sob but kept going. “So I was hoping that-that maybe if I never told you, you wouldn’t go away. That-that you’d stay, for once. Because no one else has, and I-I need my dad.”

He hadn’t noticed he wasn’t the only one crying in the room until Tony gently brushed off Peter’s tears and he could see tear-filled eyes staring right back at him. The lump in his throat only grew bigger at the sight, and a new set of tears formed. 

“Scoot over, kid,” Tony said, his voice sounding wrecked even at a whisper. Peter was confused but scooched over anyway, all of it becoming clear as his mentor—his _dad_ —crawled in next to him. Peter fumbled as he was practically dragged onto his lap but immediately took comfort in the position when his dad’s arms wrapped around him and held him tighter than he’d been held in a long, long time. 

Peter buried his head in Tony’s old AC/DC T-shirt and continued to cry, some tears out of relief that he’d finally admitted everything he’d been carrying on his shoulders. He felt his dad kiss his head then proceed to rest his chin on it, fully encompassing Peter in his hold. 

“I’m not leaving you, kid. Not now, not ever, and I swear that on my mother’s grave.” Tony’s voice was shaky but stable; it was at least strong enough that Peter was able to cling onto it with some semblance of faith. “I’m so sorry life gave you such shitty circumstances, but, _Peter_ , you’re _always_ going to have someone who loves you, no matter what. If it’s not me—and, just for the record, I’m never going to stop loving you, kid—then it’ll be May. If it’s not May it’ll be Ned, and if it’s not Ned it’ll be Michelle, and if it’s not Michelle it’ll be Pepper, and if it’s not Pepper it’ll be Rhodey—and you see how this continues down the line, right?”

Peter gave a teary laugh and sniffled, nuzzling further into his dad’s shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I see.”

Tony pulled back, cupping Peter’s face and gently wiping his tears away with the pad of his thumb. He smiled, blinking away some of his own tears, and made sure Peter was looking directly into his eyes before saying, “I love you, Pete. I love you like my own son, and I’m not sure when that started or if it’s always just been there, but you are the best thing to have ever happened to me, you understand?” He temporarily closed his eyes and shook his head as if in disbelief. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, kid, but you’re evidence that I must be doing something right. And...and I’d really love it if you let yourself call me ‘Dad’ whenever it slips out instead of beating yourself up about it.”

Peter frowned, his lip wobbling. “You...you’re really sure? Like, really sure? You’re not, like, weirded out or anything by it?” 

Tony laughed and tapped his forehead against Peter’s. “I’m really, _really_ sure, Underoos. And maybe I should be weirded out by that since I’ve never been sure of anything in my life, but I think if there were ever to be a decision where I didn’t second guess myself, it only makes sense that it would be you.”

Peter let out a cry of relief and threw his arms around Tony’s neck, squeezing as tight as he could without hurting him. “I love you, Dad.”

Tony squeezed back, finding just as much comfort in the ratty brown curls brushing against his cheek as his kid found in the scratch of his beard against his. He breathed in once, twice, three times, trying to commit this exact moment to memory, before replying. “I love you too, kid—even though we’re really only in this position because you were too damned stubborn to say anything.”

He felt Peter’s grin against his shoulder. “It’s my self-sacrificial bullshit, remember?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Tony tutted, one of his hands coming up to hold the back of Peter’s head. “Only I’m allowed to curse, young man. Dad privileges and all that.”

The sound of Peter’s laugh stuck with Tony for quite some time, and it was then that he vowed to himself he would never go a single day again without it again. It etched a permanent home in his memory, just as a small, innocent, bright-eyed boy had etched a permanent home in his heart.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was also posted on my Tumblr @tommyparkerr if you want to come check it out! Long story short I meant to post this in time for Peter's birthday but I'm an hour late because I was watching Hallmark lol but oh well, Peter's a very forgiving person so I think I'm fine:)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually planning on writing a second (shorter) part to this with 'the talk' about the titles Peter and Tony have now given each other (and Tony lecturing Peter for his self-sacrificial bullsh*t again). Let me know what you think! I love feedback :)


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